(For Joe Ushie)
When the walls of the heart crack,
blood gushes into its crevices;
sweet melodies die before our lips unwrap them,
and words wind into whips wrapping souls in sorrow.
In moments like this,
flood cannot quench our thirst
and rain only fuels a bushfire.
Words trip and fall in our throats
and voices become still,
harbouring dead words trapped in uncertainties.
To some, death remains a trance:
a relentless season of seasons—
always visiting, in rain or shine
to erode our earth of blooms or
to scorch & dry our tongues like drought.
She creeps in, silently,
fragments our tranquillity
and leaves broken pieces words cannot mend.
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